


Blooming of a Protégé

by SleepyTea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: As it's hardly a proper meeting, Character Introduction, Claquesous is extra, Claquesous/Fauntleroy, Cw; Mention of sex work, Fauntleroy is gender neutral, Fauntleroy is your average angry forest sprite, Listen I HATE titles, Minor implication of fluff? Or at least fondness, One Shot, Oof I have written in a long while so this is messy, but this hasn't been established yet, lets say Montparnasse has freckles for no good reason at all, might even be pre-decision to use said pronouns, minimal swearing, pre-production, very briefly though, what an edgy boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 07:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13566102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyTea/pseuds/SleepyTea
Summary: Claquesous had never been robbed before. At the very least, Montparnasse had never seen someone try to rob him before. Had he not been so dumbstruck by the sight before him, he might have found an idle humor in the thought.





	Blooming of a Protégé

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sunfreckle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/gifts).



> I've yet to write media in this fandom, and it's been quite a bit since I wrote anything here at all, but here's just a quick little one-shot of the first time Patron-Minette encountered Fauntleroy, as I think we need a lot more content of them in the fandom!  
> NOTE: Fauntleroy is gender neutral in this interpretation, although the introduction doesn't leave time for any one to learn that apart from the implication of their androgynous appearance. I use they pronouns mostly, although there are a few parts where they're referred to as he or 'a man' mostly from a third person perspective of one of the characters who does not yet know of their identification.

Claquesous had never been robbed before. At the very least, Montparnasse had never _seen_ someone try to rob him before. Had he not been so dumbstruck by the sight before him, he might have found an idle humor in the thought. For someone hidden behind masks and the shadow of a cloak, you’d think Claquesous would stand out like a sore thumb. Somewhat true to that fact, despite being relatively nameless in his association with crime, most people, at the very least, knew to avoid him, or had half a head in their brain to do so upon sight, what with him slender and looming through the streets. Montparnasse is hardly listening when it happens, fingertips working over a loose thread in his pocket that was causing him more distress than it should- eyes trailing after the click, click, click of the steel toed boots he’d managed to swipe in the early hours of that very day.

Occasionally, his eyes would slip up to digest the happenings of the street, not so foolish as to leave himself unguarded. Beside him, a pace or so ahead, Gueulemer is bustling on about the weather, his thick fingers stained vermillion by the press of lifted fruit from a corner cart. Montparnasse might have been irritated by how obviously he was flaunting his theft, as they were merely a few blocks for the incident, but couldn’t find it in himself to pay it much attention with how increasingly irritating his voice had become. They were friends, yes, but Montparnasse was scarcely in the mood, only antagonized by Claquesous every silent presence. The contrast seemed large and awkward beside him.

Montparnasse was swiping his eyes up again, trickling over the clatter of a trash bin in a near by alleyway- a brief sound of laughter- the infuriating thread. Montparnasse is sure he sees the hand before anyone else- slender and almost quick enough, though nonetheless foolishly stupid to the dandy. He finds himself dumbfounded by the attempt, so much so, that it’s not his own warning, rather the way the contents of Claquesous’ pockets catch on the billow of his cloak. Montparnasse hardly sees him move- in fact, he’s sure he doesn’t- and yet nonetheless, Claquesous’ hand has encompassed the runaway offender, slender fingers tight over a wrist. Montparnasse studies the figure before him, still biting down an incredulous laugh. The intruder is ridiculously small- built broad enough in the shoulders and around the jaw that he’s sure he must be male, despite standing at what he can only assume to be a hair away from five foot even. Their hair is wild and spindled in unkept curls over their eyes. Certainly, that must obstruct their view to some extent, though Montparnasse is certain they would not have gotten away with it regardless.

While their clothes are far from becoming, they’re just well enough kept after that he can tell that they must have had better success at lifting before now. Their shirt might have been white at some point, Montparnasse silently notes, the stained fabric surprisingly free of tears- laced up over the chest and fanning out wider around the sleeves- feminine, he'd venture to imply. Their height seems without menace and young despite the age obvious around the dark circles shading their eyes. Montparnasse only barely manages to catch his laughter behind his teeth this time, disguised meagerly behind a clearing of his throat. The boy looks like a pirate, finished off with a heavy medallion that Montparnasse is both irritated by the authenticity of, and alarmed that someone could be so foolish as to carry something so hefty around the scruff of their neck. Had Claquesous not caught their wrist, either of them could have easily secured them by the neck.

Claquesous. His companion’s hand still hasn’t moved from his wrist, just as so, the land-locked castaway had not made a move to relinquish their theft. Montparnasse can see the brassed end of a dagger peaking out from his pocket- knows that the taller man would not be so foolish as to keep anything of detrimental worth in his cloak. Montparnasse is not afraid of his friend, no. Hell, he’d even ventured into obnoxious bickering with him countless times before. Still, he is not stupid, and cannot feign the uneasiness that comes with the new comer’s unwavering countenance. They seems unaffected by the luminous figure above them, the turned, bleach-white beak of his mask praying out from the shadow of his hood. Stupid child, he decides with finality. Only a kid could be so ignorant as to stare danger in the face and mimic indifference. Montparnasse does not allow himself to linger on the similarities of his own youth. Already, he can hear Babet’s laugher in his head. _Your youth? Boy, you’ve barely scaled nineteen! Your youth, by gods!_

When the standstill seems as though it might be set to go on all day- and Montparnasse would not put it past possibility- Claquesous speaks. His voice is soft and even, what one might even mistake as kind, had they not known him better.

“It seems that it might be foolish to rob someone carrying a knife, wouldn’t you say?” Still, there is nothing threatening to his tone, his hand clasping his hand clasping the blade. Claquesous could disarm them of it easily, have the silver to their throat before any one was the wiser. But, he does not, simply breathes evening and lifts his head to examine the later properly.

“Your rings were a foolish mistake— too heavy to go unfelt,” he continues, watching the way the blood floods to the shorter man’s face, features distorting in anger- so volatile in light of their previously unhindered indifference shown clearly on their face. Claquesous can smell the sex on them, thick and stifling in a way that no washing could do away with. It is not hard to tell by the hollow of their cheeks, thinning beneath their eyes, that it is not a task of pleasure. There are many paths to survival- Claquesous doesn’t blink, merely absorbs the newfound information. The fullness of the younger man’s mouth moves to retort, knuckles whitening over the hilt of the dagger, when it seems as though Gueulemer had finally noticed that he’d been continuing on without his company.

Abruptly, Fauntleroy, although not yet named to the men, is lifted from the cobblestone beneath their pointed shoes, thrashing fiercely and childlike in a way that did not suit the depth of their eyes- Gueulemer holding their weight easily by the collar of their shirt. Claquesous’ eyes linger on where the chain around their neck cuts against skin, whitening the flesh- he is close to choking them. Still, he says nothing, and Montparnasse, perhaps for the sake of imitating humor, strides closer to circle the two. His theft daft fingers danced over the man’s waistline, thumbing into their pockets. Suddenly, all his qualms with Gueulemer’s public display of crime are out the window, pawing through a stranger’s clothes in broad daylight. No one spares them a glance, anyway. The color is Fauntleroy’s face is whitening- struggling for each breath despite the furious, consuming blush of their anger. Claquesous’ lip twitches up behind the secrecy of his mask, amused by their commitment to fury.

Fauntleroy, however, finds little humor in their predicament, and while Gueulemer’s head sweeps down to spy into their pried open pockets, they kick their legs back, knocking into his stomach with a resounding ‘oof’ past the burly man’s lips, and sinks their white, sharp little teeth into Montparnasse’s forearm.

“Fils de pute!” Montparnasse snarls, his face distorting in outrage at the audacity, clasping over the tear in his jacket where the needle pricks of blooming puce were seeping from his shoulder. Never mind the bothersome thread, Fauntleroy had torn a sizable gash into the sleeve. Gueulemer is laughing, perhaps at the unusual defense of the tiny man, or more likely at Montparnasse’s distress over his precious overcoat. Nonetheless, their are tears of glee watering over his eyes, and Fauntleroy manages to wiggle out of his distracted grasp, making only the faintest of sounds as they hits the floor, tailing off down the walkway and disappearing in the few seconds it takes for a passing cart to obscure their presence.

“—Italian leather!—“ Montparnasse is hissing out his distress, looking halfway to hell with his jacket held out before him, studying the rip with his own arm wet with bloodshed. Claquesous had made no move to stop the runaway, tuning out the qualm of his friends with his hooded eyes lingering on the road stretched out before him. The sun was starting to bloat heavy over the horizon, the last hour of daylight soaking the marketplace in a delectable bergamot.

“My fruit!” Gueulemer bellows, toying through the paper sack that protruded from his waistcoat- now empty and disappointing. Claquesous finally tears his eyes away, certainly not reminiscing of his own becoming or any fleeting fondness with the dissipated amusement of it all. If he makes a note to acquire the man’s name, it is only for his own diligence- the boy had been nothing like him. Again, he heeds little attention to the peril of his company, tucking his palms idly into his pockets. The cool silk lining of his pocket startles him, as little ever does. His blade is gone. 


End file.
